


When the nightmares come a-calling

by DreamingStill



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingStill/pseuds/DreamingStill
Summary: Hank has been plagued by nightmares of his son's death for years. For so long he has dealt with the pain and grief by himself, but now Connor is there to comfort him.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Kudos: 24





	When the nightmares come a-calling

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spiritual successor to one of my other DBH fics - Nightmare. It's been sitting half finished on my laptop for years so I'm glad to finally have it finished and to share it.  
> I created an aesthetic/moodboard to go with this fic which you can see below.  
> This is unbeta'd so forgive any mistakes. Enjoy!

Part 1 – Prior to the game.

*

Hank knew how this ended. It never ended any differently. But still he ran.

He could see the car. His car. With himself, his wife, and Cole inside. He tried to call out, to warn them, to stop them. But he had no voice. He tried to run out onto the road but the more he ran the further the car was from him.

He was in the car, laughing at something Cole had said. A part of his mind rebelled telling him to stop the vehicle, but on he drove.

Hank watched with sickening knowing as the truck began to skid on the black ice, hurtling towards them. Hank braced for the impact that never came.

Hank was in the hospital running down the maze of corridors. He had to find Cole, he had to find a doctor. He passed the room where he and his wife lay. An android informing them that no human doctor was available to treat Cole, that an android doctor would be perfectly capable of performing the necessary surgical operation.

“No!” Hank screamed, banging on the door. Trying desperately to get his own or his wife’s attention. “Don’t let it operate!”

Hank was stumbling down the corridor and into the room. That room. Where Cole lay. No monitor beeped, no machine or medicine was attached to Cole.

Cole lay on the bed, silent and still. Hauntingly perfect and broken beyond repair.

The wall of grief hit Hank like it did every time, driving him to his knees, a choked sob halting the breath in his lungs.

He was at the bed, a trembling hand reaching out to stroke his son’s cheek. Hank pulled Cole into his arms, burying his face in his son’s hair as the tears came and the anguish overtook him.

Hank was at the side of the road, their car on its roof, the truck on its side, and Cole’s limb body clutched in his arms. Choking tears clouded his vision and slurred his words, “Come on, son, open your eyes. Stay awake, Cole. Stay awake for dad.”

But it was no use, no amount of cajoling would wake Cole up because they were back in the hospital and Hank was clutching the body of his dead son.

“COLE!” Hank sat up, sweaty and shaking, face soggy with tears and head pounding.

The room he was in was dark and he looked around panicked. Where was he? What was going on? Where was Cole? Then with painful realization he understood what had happened. He had been dreaming. Again.

Hank buried his face in his hands, self-loathing and disgust rising within him.

He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulling hard on the strands in frustration. He did not want this. He did not want to feel like this. Why was he like this? Why did he have to be this way?

Hank threw the covers from himself and made his way, stumbling, into the kitchen. There was a loud thud as he knocked something to the floor, but he did not care. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

He grabbed the bottle of amber liquid from the countertop, a glass was pointless, and drank straight from the bottle. He drank and drank, and drank until he could not remember, until he could not feel.

He tumbled into a chair at the kitchen table, like he always did. And though he did not remember, the revolver ended up in his hand, like always. One bullet in the cylinder. And he began his game of Russian Roulette.

He continued to drink until he could not drink anymore, until his stomach gave out in a violent gushing of vomit.

Vomit covered the floor; it stained his t-shirt, and some dribbled down his chin.

He made a half-hearted attempt to clean up, and at some point he must have made his way back into his bedroom, though he was not conscious of moving there.

A twisted version of sleep darkened his mind, but despite all the alcohol he had consumed, death and blood still plagued the edges of his mind.

He awoke the following morning with a start. He sat up in one motion, panting and gasping, clutching at the sheets. Then, quickly wiping his hands of the phantom blood that he could still see on them.

He sucked in more air with rough, uneven gulps. The musty smell of his room, the open whisky bottle on the nightstand, the smell of old coffee from yesterday that had sat out all night, clawing at his nose.

He was still gasping when the panic overtook him. He threw the sheets off himself, his t-shirt completely soaked through with sweat, and propelled himself into the bathroom before throwing up into the sink. The retching soon became dry heaving, and at last his stomach began to settle.

He turned on the tap and let the cool water wash over his hands. He was thankful there was nothing left in his stomach to come up, and as he slowly calmed he laid his head against the cold porcelain sink.

He was not aware of time passing. He tried not to think at all, except for the feel of the cold and his breathing. At first his breath came in ragged sharp gasps, then deep gulps of air, before finally slow breaths through his nose.

Though the fog of his self-imposed oblivion his mind turned to darker thoughts. Of the revolver still on the kitchen table. Of the game he played.

Some day he might lose his drunken game of Russian Roulette. Some day he might put that gun to his head, pull the trigger, and the gun might actually go off. Some day he may not wake up from his drunken stupor.

And that might not be a bad thing.

In fact, it would be a blessed relief.

~~*~~

Part 2 - Post game.

*

Hank knew how this ended. It never ended any differently.

The car, Cole, the hospital, the crash, Cole’s limp body, the blood, the lifeless and unseeing eyes of his son. Hank was pulled along the inexorable narrative; one he had been on many times before. But then something changed.

He was no longer cradling Cole’s lifeless body but Connor’s. Blue Thirium leaking out of his eyes, nose, and mouth.

Hank choked on the sobs trying to make their way out. His blue stained hands shook and trembled as he tried in vain to wake Connor

“No, no, no,” Hank groaned. “Don’t leave me too, Connor! Don’t leave me all alone again.”

Then Connor’s body was gone, and a series of horrific scenes began to play out in front of Hank.

Connor was being shot in the head, being hit by a car on the highway, he was lying on the floor his heart having been ripped out. On and on they went like some sick and twisted movie.

Hank felt sick, bile rose up his throat and tears flowed down his cheeks. He couldn’t keep doing this. Each time he watched Connor die it was like a knife through his heart, and each successive death reminded him more and more of Cole.

He wanted to scream. Make it stop. He wanted the pain to stop, for it all to just end. He wanted to die.

And then Hank woke, tangled up in the bedclothes. He scrambled to sit up and realized his pillow was wet; he had not just been crying in his dream.

A wave of grief and hopelessness washed over him once more as he remembered Cole’s death and Connor’s dream deaths. The pain twisted within him, clawing and tearing, and leaving him shaking.

On some level he knew that Connor had not died, that he was alive, but his nightmare had been so real, so painful, that Hank’s anguish overtook his rational understanding. He tried to push the terrifying notion away but still he feared he might never see him Connor again. He was alone again. Maybe he should get the revolver, no more Russian Roulette, six bullets in the chamber and pull the trigger. Then the pain would stop. He would not be alone anymore; he could see his wife and Cole again. Maybe he should do that. Maybe-

“Hank, are you alright? You were yelling and…” Connor stopped as Hank looked up at him, and he saw Hank’s eyes, still red from crying and holding all the agony and torment of the nightmare. “Hank?” he asked again, the look of concern on his face deepening.

Hank stared at Connor, his mind waring between reality and nightmare. Connor was alive, he was standing in his house, in the doorway to his bedroom. Relief swept through Hank and threatened to send him into another emotional tailspin.

“It’s okay, Hank…” Connor said, his voice barely above a whisper, and took a step into the room.

Hank took a couple of deep breaths and cleared his throat. After a few false starts he managed to say, without his voice shaking too much, “I’m fine Connor, just another bad dream. Go back to bed. Or hibernation, whatever you call it.”

Instead, Connor took another step into the room, his LED turning to yellow. “Another? What’s wrong, Hank?”

Hank shook his head, internally cursing himself, “Nothing. It’s just stresses of the job. Dealing with all the newly freed androids and the folks giving out about it. It’s just a lot.”

Connor tilted his head, his LED still yellow, and gave Hank a knowing look, “I think it’s more than just the job, Hank. Tell me what is wrong, I can help.”

Damn that android and his all too knowing eyes. “I don’t think you can.”

“Try me.”

Hank sighed, got out of bed, and went on unsteady feet to the kitchen to get a glass of water. As he watched the water flow down into the glass, he tried to sort out his emotions. The desire to fetch the revolver had lessened now that he was awake, and he knew Connor was alive. And yet a thread of longing was still present, to take the easy way out, to end the pain once and for all.

When he turned back around, he found Connor sitting at the kitchen table, waiting patiently in a way only an android could.

Hank sat down opposite him, ran his hands over his face and braced himself. Normally he would never tell anyone something so personal, something that made his vulnerable. But the dream had left him shaken and emotionally drained, and he did not think he could hold it in anymore. He needed to talk, however against his nature that might be. So he did, staring at a point on the wall just past Connor’s head he began.

“I’ve been having these dreams, nightmares, almost weekly for years now. Ever... ever since the night of the… accident and every time it’s about Cole’s… death. I try to stop it, try to stop the car, try to warn them about the android doctor... but it never works no matter how much or how hard I try. He still, my son, still dies. And it’s my fault. It’s always horrifying and even though a part of me knows what will happen, when I’m there it feels so real. Like it’s not a dream. And there’s nothing I can ever do to stop it.” His breath hitched at the end and he had to work hard not to let his grief overtake him. Fuck it, he thought, he was turning into an emotionally wreck.

Connor was silent, his yellow LED pulsing, like he was processing it all. “I’m sorry, Hank,” he said finally.

They sat there for a minute or so, Connor’s LED still blinking.

“Hank, you were yelling, that’s why I came in. You’ve never yelled before tonight.” It was a statement more than a question. Connor did not want to push Hank too far and have him clam up, but he needed to know and understand what was going on for Hank. Connor had some basic psychological and behavioural knowledge, a necessary requirement for his police work, and he recognised that Hank needed to speak about what was going on. Before it was too late, and he did himself some harm.

Hank ran a hand through his long hair and took a gulp of water. He avoided looking at Connor. “Tonight was… different.”

“How so?” Connor questioned in an even tone.

“This time, it was…” he hesitated, and sighed heavily as another wave of emotion and pain rose within him, “You were in the dream. You’ve never been in one before.”

“Me? What do you mean?” Connor looked confused, LED blinking faster.

“Connor, I saw you die over and over again. It was so bloody, so realistic,” Hank stopped and swallowed. “I could feel you dying in my arms, I could smell the Thirium. I can still almost smell it.” Hank’s voice shook, but whether it was fear or grief or something else, Connor could not tell.

“And all that blue blood.” Hank continued, his face in his hands. “It was the worst nightmare yet,” he whispered, nearly inaudibly.

Connor said nothing but shifted his chair next to Hanks. If Hank had been watching, he would have seen the indecision flicker across the android’s face and the LED briefly flash red.

“You know it was not real Hank. I am real, I am not dead. I would never leave you.”

Hank looked up sharply, hearing an echo of the words he had cried out in the dream.

Connor looked apologetic at causing, even unintentionally, more distress to Hank. He put his hand on Hank’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “It’s okay, Hank. I am safe and you are safe. Everything is alright.”

At those words, Hank felt like his heart was breaking again, and felt the tears so close to falling again. Hank buried his face in his hands once more ashamed of the burgeoning tears. But then Hank felt tentative arms wrap around him, holding him close. Without thinking, instead of flinching or pulling away, Hank reciprocated Connor’s embrace and pulled the android closer to him. He gripped Connor’s suit jacket as emotions ran riot within him.

This was the real Connor. Not the dream Connor, whose body was slick with blue blood with unmoving eyes. This Connor was warm and solid, and free of any blood. This was not a dream, this was real. He was not alone. He had not lost everyone he cared about.

Eventually the deep gasping breaths eased, and Hank relaxed as he felt the strong unshaking arms of the android around him.

Hank was not sure how long they sit there, and he did not really care. He felt safe in Connor’s arms and relief that he was not alone. Through the fog of grief and guilt and pain Hank felt a warmth grow within him, a feeling of hope and a reason to keep going.

Connor hated to see Hank in such pain. He did not fully understand it, he was still getting used to and comprehend emotions, but he wanted to ease Hank’s pain any way he could.

“You should go back to bed,” Connor said eventually. “You need to sleep. I’ll stay with you.”

With a grumble, Hank lumbered to his feet, muttering, “I’ll be fine,” and he made his way down the hall to his room.

Connor followed him into the room, and the gentle tap-tap of Sumo’s paws on the wooden floor shadowed the man and android.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m staying,” Connor insisted. “You would stay if I had a nightmare.”

“Can androids have nightmares?”

Connor paused, thinking, “I do not know. But if we can and I had one, you would stay with me if I needed you to.”

A grunt was the only reply Hank gave, but he did not refute Connor’s the statement either.

Once he was sure Hank was settled, Connor made his way around to the other side of the bed and made himself comfortable sitting with his back against the headboard.

Hank was about to protest that he didn’t need to be treated like a child when Sumo decided to jump up on the bed and settled himself by Hank and Connor’s feet.

Clearly outnumbered Hank remained silent.

As the minutes passed Hank began to relax and though he would never admit it out loud, he was very grateful that Connor had stayed. The android’s presence and proximity were soothing.

Even if the nightmares came back, Hank knew there was someone there to wake him if he was tossing and turning in the night, someone to sit with him and wait until the pain and darkness had passed. He was not alone. He had found a new family, an unorthodox one consisting of himself, an android, and a dog, but a family nonetheless.

With those thoughts, and with Connor and Sumo watching over him, knowing he was not alone anymore, Hank fell back to sleep and had the most restful night’s sleep he had had since before the accident.

***

Fin


End file.
